A Magazine of Literature and the Arts

“The Hudson Review is rare in having remained a forum for intelligent, well-written criticism and cultural commentary on a broad spectrum of topics. In fact it belongs to a tiny handful of magazines where the first criterion of inclusion is literary merit.”

Death on the Nile

My blissful boyhood in Bithynia,the girls I never kissed,
the rough-haired mare I named Andromedavanished like wisps of mist.
Who could have guessed the regal visitorat our provincial fete
would glimpse in me his beardless conquerorthat torchlit night we met?

He plucked me from my father’s field and grove,uprooting me for life.
So long as I play Ganymede to Jove,he’ll spurn his royal wife.
He gave me racing teams and chariot,trophies, wreaths, and wine.
He brought me victories I never soughtand never felt were mine;

yet once I loved him more than Mithra’s flamesingeing the sacrifice,
and like Pythagoras I laughed at fame,ignorant of its price.
A fate like this—tapped by the golden rod—no sage could comprehend.
Mighty Isis—the Christians’ risen God—all fail me at the end.

My master’s fever worsens every night.No balm affords him rest,
so I resolve to leave before first lightraises the feathered crest
of Egypt’s eagle roosting on the ridgebehind this stygian quay.
Under the stars, a man is but a midgeand death a breath away.

River of Ramses, take my sacrifice.In Hades no one wears
pomades or emerald rings. No youths entice;no jealous Emperor glares
with eyes as shiny dark as scarab shells.No sycophants applaud
an empty deed, or fawning poet tellsof mankind overawed.

Oh Africa, you famished crocodile,swallow this flesh I shed.
Gorge, you greedy python, father Nile,heave on your silted bed.
My corpse will feed the teeming needlefish;their fry, the stalking stilt.
So Antinous at last shall have his wish;and Hadrian, his guilt.